


open bar included

by Humanities_Handbag



Category: Hotel Transylvania (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Late Night Phone Calls, Open Bar is Included, Weddings, because that's what you're getting, oh I'm sorry you DIDN'T want a fic where Ericka and Dracula start off as best friends?, two people are terrible at both parties, well too bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-07-02 04:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15788868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanities_Handbag/pseuds/Humanities_Handbag
Summary: when mavis tugs at his cape and glares across the room and snarls "van helsing", dracula's expectations are set pretty low on this whole wedding thing.it's one thing to suffer through the terrible mundanity of party etiquette, but finding your arch nemesis three deep into a martini across the crowded and sweaty dance floor may have taken the (wedding) cake.and then the van helsing approaches him."relax," she says, ignoring his extended fangs and claws in favor of drearily setting her empty glass down on a table. "i'm only here for the open bar."(alternatively: in which arch nemesis exchange glares, drinks, and phone numbers)





	1. Tequila

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scarfgal398](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=scarfgal398).



> oh, you mean you didn't want a story where Dracula and Ericka meet at a bar and they're very aware who the other is?
> 
> and you totally didn't want a story where they become best friends over their shared hatred of party etiquette?
> 
> well too bad. 
> 
> i'm a slut for trash fires.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Water down Tequila with other mixers. Drink when you're having a bad day. 
> 
> A "thinking of my dead wife" sort of day. 
> 
> Consume Responsibly.

It had been Mavis’ idea to crash a human wedding. Well… not so much crash as formerly invite humans to enough of their own events that eventually they themselves were victim to the same hospitable treatment. He hadn’t wanted to go. Convinced that the world was one entire vampire trap of a conspiracy still waiting to snap them into its jaws.

They get the letter in the mail. He hadn't noticed it. Slipping the eggshell (or cream or milk or white or  _whatever_ color Mavis insisted it was) envelope below a stack of bills and forgetting about it before Mavis had dug it up, read it twice, three, four times, squealed about how  _darling_ Dennis would look in formalwear, and pinned it to the fridge. 

She sent out the RSVP's before Dracula had been alerted. And he would be, eventually, alerted when she'd pounced into his room and declared that she'd checked off his menu choice as "fish". 

He hadn't had a chance to say no. His complaints gone unheard, she'd excitedly detailed their plans for the week ahead ("can you believe it, Dad! Us! Invited! To a  _humany wedding_!" - "Nononono-") and took the time to drag his best clothes out of the closet, choosing his clothes for the week ahead, pressing different colors up and squinting between a poked out tongue. Her own dress and heels, which she modeled for him, too anxious to wait a week for the actual day, were slipped on. The dress was an old one and kept riding up. And her feet were beginning to look red and sore. He wasn't sure if pointing either of those things out would get him out of dress-up hell, or if he'd wind up with a lecture about common courtesy. 

He kept his mouth shut instead, and let his daughter have her overenthusiastic moment. 

“You’re being silly,” his daughter had said, holding up his fancier cumberbund and dropping it onto the bed with far less care than one should bestow upon fancier cumberbunds. “The humans around here are getting used to us. This is a good thing!”

“How is walking into their traps a good thing?” He reached down and smoothed out invisible wrinkles from his cumberbund while she shuffled through his armoire, pulling out a vest and dress pants and an ascot. “Why did they invite us, anyway?”

 “It’s because people in the town are trying their best to _integrate_ .” She sounded out the word, separating each syllable into tiny, very patronizing bits. _In-Ta-Grate_. “And they’ve been here before, remember? They ate here? Like, a week after they got engaged or something?”

“No.”

“Well they were. And I talked to them, and they were perfectly lovely.”

“Perfectly lovely people kill one another all the time.” He watched her compare two different vests. "And they also kill Vampires. And think about killing Vampires. And  _dream_ about killing Vampires in awful and tricky traps. Like weddings."

“They didn’t seem like the killing type, dad. They ordered white wine.” She shimmied down her dress where it had been riding up her legs -a black, stretchy thing that had been giving her a run for her money all evening- and declared that “people who drink white wine don’t make traps to kill vampires.”

“Whatever you say, Honey Bat.”

“Anyway, they invited us, because they’re trying to show some sort of good will, and I think it’s _great_. And Johnny thinks it’s a good idea, too.” She stomped back to the closet to find the rest of his clothes. She was busy with her own dress-up show, and the sample heels clacked, her possible dress slowly beginning its descent back up past her knees.

“Johnny thinks _everything's_ a good idea.”

She dumped the rest onto the bed, giving her dress a frustrating tug down. “Johnny says it's a step forward.”

“Johnny also says cryptocurrency is the future,” sneered Dracula, poking at the dress pants. “I don’t think he’s the mystic sage we need to climb mountains for.”

“This sounds like more than your problems with parties, Dad.” She crossed her arms. “I once read that people with secondary reasons and excuses are _projecting_.”

“What the hell is _projecting_.”

“It’s- _nevermind_. It’s what you’re doing, okay? Using all your stupid past stuff and avoiding problems. When really the best -the only- thing to do is face things head on.”

“That’s an awful idea.”

“It’s a _step forward_.” She moves his hand away from the fallen dresswear, holding them between her own. He’d yet to relax, but the defeat of being yanked from a frustration-fueled panic attack by his own daughter was enough to settle him down. He sighed, shoulders slumping.

“I know… But… why do we have to take it at a _wedding_.”

“Because it’s what we have now. And maybe next time it’ll be a bat mitzvah. Or a potluck.”

“They’d never invite us to a potluck. Humans always think we’ll bring blood. Or eat them before they can finish the pasta salad.” He kicked at the floor. “Why does anyone even _like_ pasta salad.”

She snorted, dropping his hands. “Pick out _something_ for next week,” his daughter commanded. "We’re taking all the steps. And we’re doing them together.”

“Fine,” he said, giving his vest a poke before mumbling “But there’d better be an open bar.”

“ _What was that_?”

“Nothing, honey bat!”

* * *

 It wouldn’t be later that night, a few hours before the castle guests would be puttering off to sleep, when Dracula would get a chance to rethink his commitments, staring down into his bloody mary and pouting aimlessly to anyone who would hear it.

“A _wedding_?” Wayne stirred the olive in his glass. From beside him, Griffin snorted.

Murray was doing his best to curse his glass- already a few deeper than the rest of them, and slurring through Egyptian with a fixed stare.

His glass shuttered and filled with sand. He sighed.

“A wedding,” Dracula said back, dragging a hand down his face. “She wants me to go to a _wedding_.”

“But… _why_.”

“I don’t know. To… to get the humans used to us, or something. I’m not sure.”

“Huh.” Frank motioned to the bartender, who clambered back to the fridge for Beer #3. “It might be a good idea. You might have-” the word _funm_ didn’t make it out. Dracula caught it fast with a look to bend steel and Frank pulled his attention to scratching at a stain on the counter. “Well- it’ll be something. And- and you know? Maybe Mavis is right?”

Dracula snarled down to his drink.

“Not to put a damper on things, but your reputation has some… unfortunate caveats.” Wayne plucked at the olive, crunching down, pit and all.

Murray dumped the sand in his glass into a neat pile on the counter. “Of the skewering and beheading and murdering type.”

“I’ve _never_ -”

“True or not, Humans _live_ for that schtick,” Wayne stressed, spitting the pit into his glass with a _plink_.“You’ve got centuries’ worth of bad press to work off, my friend.”

Griffin agreed with a swig of his own drink, and Frank accepted Beer #3, nodding sagely.

Dracula sulked. “This is ridiculously unfair,” he concluded.

“Totally,” said Frank.

“And I _don’t_ want to go.”

“Yeah, but Mavis _does_. So you’re gonna go, make light small talk about sports, politely comment on some outfits, eat some awful cake, and excuse yourself after the music gets too loud.” Frank, who’d taken great care lately to work on his own reputation, was a frequent recipient of all such party invites and had taken himself to be the master of the Polite-Sneak-Out. He saluted with his beer. “Trust me, Drac. Humans totally fall for that social stuff.”

Dracula glared back down at his glass.

“What did Mavis say?”

He glanced at Wayne, shoulders pushed in. “She said she thought this was stemming from secondary reasoning. Or something like that.”

“Hm.”

“It’s not true.”

“Okay.”

“There aren’t any hidden reasons that I hate parties.”

“Sure.”

“I dislike human party etiquette. Too many fake smiles.”

“Right,” said Wane, who was absolutely giving him a I’m-Tolerating-This-For-Your-Sake smile. Dracula bunched his hands into his cape.

“Fine,” he hissed. “But I’m not talking about sports.”

“You _need_ to talk about sports.”

“I don’t know sports.”

“Just say that the Red Sox are doing bad this year, and act unfairly angry about it,” said Frank, shrugging. “Sports are easy.”

Dracula took note, swigging back the rest of his drink in one burning go and ordered another with a forceful slam of his hand.

* * *

He thought about it on the way back to his room. A little tipsy-

(Okay, fine, a _lot_ tipsy)

-and sulking in his own personal windmill of tragedies.

Weddings had been something Dracula couldn’t particularly cope with since…

( _fires_ )

( _humans_ )

( _i’ll be right back_ )

( _you stay here_ )

… Martha.

Martha.

Martha who was long dead and gone and definitely not either a secondary reason or excuse for his dislike of all things wedding related.

“Sports,” he reminded himself doggedly, gripping the wall for balance and counting doors to find his. “ _Sports_.”

 _Martha_ , reminded his oh-so wonderful brain.

He flinched. Well- there was always plan two. Smothering himself in his coffin didn’t sound _so_ awful, when it was all said and done.

 _Hah,_ said the voice in his head, who was also three drinks in and tenaciously glad to mock him at every turn. _And what would Martha say to that!_

“Fuck off,” snarled Dracula to the doorknob.

 _Hah!_ it mocked again. _Hope you can remember your sports_.

“Red Sox,” he grumbled, before finally opening the door and slipping inside.

* * *

He chose an outfit the next day, and consented to Mavis' endless squeals of approval. 

Johnny, who'd been much more relaxed about the entire thing and had long since allowed his wife to have a go at his closet, leaned on the door and watched Dracula sink lower into himself. "Weddings, huh?" drawled Johnny.

"Uh huh," rasped Dracula. Then; "Red Sox?"

"Hmm," said Johnny, looking up and pursing his lips in thought. "Red Sox, dude. Bad season, right?"

Sports were, as Frank predicted, impossibly easy. 


	2. Vodka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Add lemon. Vodka alone is tough to swallow. 
> 
> Just like terrible families.

Her great-grandfather was many things. Certified nut. Absolute asshole. Zealot and conspiracy theorist (conspiracy  _ artist _ , he would argue with some ire). Vampire hunter. 

She would not have pinned him as a loyalist to mundane family gatherings. 

“It’s  _ perfect _ , Ericka, dear,” her great-grandfather, a man who was more of a lukewarm cyborg, joyously declared, spinning his wheels about and circling her in the dingy motel kitchen. He held an invitation in his hand and fanned it through the air. 

Ericka sighed and poured her coffee. It was the instant stuff, and she could see the granules floating to the top of the muddy water. Fantastic. “I’m not going.”

“Yes, you are!”

“I’m not.” She took a sip and blanched. The texture was grainy on her tongue. She took another sip anyway. Caffeine was caffeine, even when it tasted like an ashtray. “We’re not here to go to weddings, great-grandfather-”

“But the Legacy-”

“The  _ Legacy _ has to do with us finding a way to take down Count Dracula. Not checking off options for chicken or fish.” She turned to face Van Helsing, who had yet to stop fanning the invitation about the room, like a lovesick moth. “I came with you to do what I  _ always _ come with you to do. Kill stupid vampires to avenge stupid family members and end our stupid legacy”

“But this  _ is _ a family thing.”

She rolled her eyes, charging past him with heavy feet. The motel they’d turned into was small, and dirty, and there wasn’t much room between the kitchen and the ripped couch of the living room. And so storming away had little effect when she sat down three seconds later, having crossed less than ten feet of space. She cursed the dramatic timing gods and angrily drank her coffee. “I sit with you all day in stuffy, dust packed libraries. I think I’d rather just have the night to myself, thanks.”

He rolled over towards her. “And how is this  _ not _ a night to yourself!”

“Sharing the air with a couple hundred strangers? Exchanging small talk? Pretending to be interested in kids?” She snorted, grimacing as she took another long drag from the mug. “I’d rather not spend time with people named Steve or Mat or Barbara or whatever and say  _ how are the kids _ a million times over. I know how the kids are. They’re always  _ great _ . And always doing well in school. And always making friends. I get it.”

“ _ Ericka _ .”

“ _ No _ .”

“ _ Er-i-cka _ ,” he chided, slapping her knee with the invitation at each popped syllable. She heaved a sigh to start a hurricane and leaned back into the ripped couch. 

Their reason for traveling to Transylvania had been legitimate. Her great-grandfathers ever unchanging hatred for all things fanged and monstrous had carried onto her long ago, and the legacy he’d bestowed upon her was one he’d long intended to see carried out in his lifetime. 

His very, very long lifetime. 

It had begun a failed Cruise Plot. 

She’d tried to point out the flaw to him many a time: The chances of an entire Vampire family seeing, falling for, and buying into a  _ Murderous Cruise _ was… not great. And they hadn't. Just like she’d told him. 

Ericka had owned the SS Legacy for some time. She’d always been good at giving orders, and her grandfathers paranoia meant that a lot of her childhood was spent on boats (and trains, planes, and in places with lots and lots and lots of sunshine because  _ They Can’t Get Us Here, Ericka! _ ). Her grandfathers plan to weaponize it had been a huge kick in her moderately successful business. 

So while workers took out all the complex traps and she paid -out of pocket, mind you- for repairs, he’d swung them into their next plan. 

“We’ll go to Transylvania!” He’d said to her over breakfast in some ragtag hotel outside of Florida where they’d docked the ship. 

She’d sighed down at her Terrible Hotel Toast. It was the same density as asphalt and didn’t taste much better. “Grandfather…”

“The last plan wasn’t…”

“Smart?”

“Bah!” he waved her off. “You know what they say about hindsight. I have too much of it, as it were.”

“Mmhm,” she’d said, chomping down into the toast. 

“But not to worry!” He flicked his wrist and the gears under his armpit sputtered. “The next plan is much better. Much more  _ direct _ . We’ll go to Transylvania! He won't ever see  _ that _ coming!”

“Except that your last plan put me on the red line,” she said, tongue teasing a scrape on her mouth from the titanium level toast. She’d tasted blood. “I’m paying to have  _ your traps _ taken out of  _ my ship _ .”

“Oh Ericka, please-”

“No.” She’d dropped her toast onto her plate with a clatter. She swore the plate cracked under its might. “If we’re doing this do you  _ know _ who’s going to end up buying the plane tickets?”

“Ericka-”

“ _ Me _ . And who’s paying for the hotel? The weapons? The cars?” She crossed her arms. “It would be better to stay here. Run the cruise a few more seasons and save up for your Legacy.”

“You mean  _ your _ Legacy!” He’d leaned forward. His eyes tried to bat, but looked more like crazed staplers. “Ericka.  _ Please _ . Consider. Dracula is a scourge to humanity! It’s our  _ Destiny _ to make the world better!” He’d reached across and taken her hands in his. They were cold and sharp. “Ericka,” he crooned in his rusty voice. “I might not be around much longer. Don’t you want to help me before I go?”

She’d tried to say no. 

She  _ had _ said no. 

Just like that: “No.” Watching his face fall and listening to him humph and puff for days after about  _ insolence _ and  _ legacies _ and  _ doesn’t take the family name seriously- foolish girl _ . 

Ericka ignored it all. Supervising her ships repairs and trying hard not to listen. She wanted Dracula dead as much as any other Van Helsing but…

_ But _ … 

But she’d had a good business. And her credit cards were overcharged. And the whole Moving Around For Failed Plots thing was a major time bummer. And she’d have probably kept on saying no. 

Until the newspaper dropped in front of their hotel room, courtesy of a littering neighbor, and Van Helsing had nearly popped a gear from ranting. 

Apparently, Dracula’s Hotel, which they’d been watching for  _ years _ , had begun accepting  _ humans _ into his hotel. 

Ericka’s skin had crawled. 

“Don’t you see?” her great-grandfather had told her then, poking at the article. “He’s luring them.  _ Herding _ them. These humans? They’re no better than sheep to the slaughterhouse.”

Her resolve began to slip when she reached out and held that article. Imagining families from her own cruise ship being lured into the tall, stone walls towards their doom. Her stomach rolled. “I bet he keeps their blood in barrels in the dungeons. Or bathes in it.”

“I’m sure he does,” he’d said, patting her hand. “And  _ that’s _ why we need to go. To ensure the safety of all humankind for all eternity.”

And that night she’d overcharged her cards again and had booked them two One-Way tickets to Transylvania. 

And so they’d traveled to Transylvania; luggage brimming with stakes and silver and all sorts of Vampire Hunting treasures. And along the way they’d wound up in the motel, just two miles out of the small village that bordered the forests by the infamous hotel. 

Which had Van Helsing positively giddy with vengeful destructive glee. 

He’d shown her that if she climbed up the restricted steps of the motel and stood on the balcony, they could just see it. 

There. Above the trees.

The castle. 

And so their plans began. When they’d holed away in hotels and libraries and spent most of their (her, she often reminded him,  _ her _ ) time plotting the perfect way to take down the villainous Prince of Darkness. 

And it was then, around the same time, that they also found out about the wedding. 

And she really, really,  _ really _ didn’t want to go to the wedding. 

Van Helsing was ecstatic. “The Van Helsing’s have lived in these parts for  _ years _ . They might not carry our name anymore, dear, but they’re still family.”

“They’re  _ distant _ family.”

“Distant family who heard we were coming! And who sent out  _ this _ !” He waved the printed email invitation at her. When she looked away, frowning, he sighed. “Think of this as… research… We need to get the clan back together. We’re stronger as a unit, you know? Even if they don’t want to carry our name, or our legacy, maybe you can… convince them?”

“At a wedding?”

“Why not!” 

Ericka chewed on her tongue. Her grandfather had always been a sucker for parties and dancing. He couldn’t attend them anymore. The whole Mostly-Cyborg thing put a damper on most situations, and he was legally dead in almost 47 countries. It wasn’t a mystery why he wasn’t thrilled at the idea of rolling up to the venue and introducing himself.

But he had every intention of torturing his granddaughter with his own stupid fantasies, apparently. 

She sunk into the couch and sulked down at her coffee. “Fine,” she grumbled. “But I’m not wearing a dress.”

“ _ Huzzah! _ ” He slapped the invitation down on her knee hard enough for the expensive paper to sting. “And the dress code is  _ formal  _ so - Ericka  _ try _ to at least look nice.”

“I always look nice.”

“Then I’m sure,” he admonished, billowing the invitation under her nose, her eyes crossing with the effort of looking down, “you won't mind doing it for a wedding, dear.”

What real choice did she have. 

And when she looked at the invitation that night, snuggled under stiff, illusively stained hotel sheets, the words that finally set her mind on checking the “yes” box leapt out at her like a chariot from heaven. 

_ Open Bar Included _

Well, thank fucking god for small miracles. 

* * *

Edgar Wilhelm’s family had changed their name years ago. 

After many (failed) attempts at killing the Vampire of Transylvania and bringing shame to the Van Helsing name, his family had up and changed their name. 

Edgar Wilhelm had only ever known his last name. 

But he was acutely aware of the one that had come before it.

And so when there was news along the family grapevine of talkatike aunts and uncles that the very reason for the Name-Change was coming back to Transylvania and bringing along the only remaining Van Helsing Cousin with him, there was a ripple of distaste that passed through them all. 

“You’d better watch out,” his Aunt Berta had warned. “You don’t want her to come along and ruin all your good work!”

Which was true. 

His family in the past few years had done their best to smooth over their relationship with the Vampires, who’d finally revealed themselves to the public again and had tentatively welcomed humans in the process. 

So for a while, things were looking up. 

Until his to-be wife invited the Van Helsings to the wedding.

“ _ Honey _ …” he scrubbed his face. “We’re inviting the  _ Dracula’s _ here, too!”

“So?” She looked over her wine glass across their little dinner table, tilting her head. Her hair skimmed the table. “That was years ago. I’m sure they’re not still trying to get revenge!” And laughed, eyes sparkling.

He scrubbed his face harder. “You don’t  _ know _ them. They will, Patrice. I swear, they will. And they wont stop. Ever.”

“Oh please.” And she’d reached across the table and taken her fiance's hands. “It’ll be fine, love. I’m sure they’re over the whole thing. And come on,” she said, with another laugh. “She might not even show!”

But the worry nagged him. It kept nagging him for weeks. It nagged him the day before. It nagged him while he said his vows. 

And it would nag him when he caught sight of his distant cousin walking towards the reception hall they’d booked. He’d only ever seen her in pictures. And then there she was. Striding forward with an expression cold and dark as a mine, stabbing the floor with every one of her stilettoed steps. 

“There had better be an open bar,” she said in her Coal Mine voice. He’d nodded, trying to work out words through a dry mouth, but gave up. She’d rolled her eyes and strode past. 

_ Oh _ , he’d thought, watching her go.  _ This was definitely not good _ .

* * *

 

Dracula was  _ not _ happy. He wasn’t happy getting dressed. Nor loading into the car. Not even after Mavis had found an incredible free parking spot and Jonathan had restrained himself enough to leave his DJ pack at home, or when Dennis had insisted that he and Papa Drac match socks, or even after Mavis had pointed out that an open bar was included (which definitely helped to quell the sting). 

He was decidedly cross.

“Can you  _ try _ to look happy,” his daughter whispered through her teeth, applauding the happy couple, who entered into the main ballroom, waving and smiling and sweating. Cameras flashed at awkward angles. The groom had his eyes closed for most of them. The bride kept looking towards the food longingly. “Marriage is a beautiful thing!”

“Mmmhm,” hummed Dracula, looking towards the exit. Mavis elbowed his ribs. 

“ _ Try _ ,” she hissed. “It’ll be good for you.”

“I really don’t see how.”

“We’re here to build relations.”

“I feel like my relations are sufficient enough.”

Her glare was well set, and he sulked, but finally chipped in with a lackluster golf clap that she must have thought was enough, because she went back to smiling and whooping with the rest of the crowd. 

Weddings weren't really his thing. 

He’d auspiciously avoided them, feigning work and child related excuses. And then Frank had gotten married. Or, less of a marriage, and more a celebration that his new beloved bride was fresh off the electric slab. The entire affair had been an uproar of activity that had kept Dracula distracted enough with the always soothing booze (too much of it- and Frank hadn’t had an open bar, so the soothing had cost him a pretty farthing) until the band had dragged the excitement down with a selection of slow songs that brought couples dragging one another to the floor, heavy eyed and finger clasped. 

It was then that the alcohol did little to sate the feeling of a gremlin playing a concerto against his ribs. He did what he could to push away the lonely ache, but often that only clogged the drain, and he’d overflow on his own time, blinking up through eyes blurry with the dwindling buzz of alcohol at Martha’s portrait on his wall. 

He swore after Wayne’s wedding that he’d never partake in the awful ceremonies ever again. 

And then his hotel had become popular. And young to-be monster brides were asking when there were available booking slots and did they cater and they wanted everything to be  _ creame _ not  _ eggshell _ , and Dracula could do little. During the off season, those kind of profits kept businesses afloat. 

Dracula, as he not-so affectionately declared, sucked that shit up. 

It would get easier as time went by, he told himself. And to a degree, it did. The little gremlin didn’t knock quite as hard on his ribs (though there was a good deal more ignoring on his part), and Martha’s picture hadn’t been gazed at pre-hangover in some time. 

There was always the crush of something. Horrible. Awful. Terrible. The sort of ache that makes him want to storm to the microphone and tell every single one of the newly weds about the horrors of humanity.  _ Get ready _ ! He wants to scream.  _ The world is going to dump a giant load of tragic pitchfork carrying backstory into your lives! And you won't be able to stop it! _

He never did that, of course. Societal niceties would have never allowed it. 

And he was a slave to societal niceties. 

Still, there was always that moment, sometime when the first Al Green song crooned over the speakers-

( _ fires _ )

( _ humans _ )

( _ i’ll be right back _ )

( _ you stay here _ )

( _ humans humans humans _ )

-where he began to feel the slip of his barely contained stability. 

And then humans had moved in. 

And then Mavis had married one. 

And then slow dances had become a bit more inclusive. 

And then Mavis was trouncing into his room, declaring them guests of a human wedding, and dragging him into the car with orders to keep his grousing to himself, because Dennis was excited and  _ we don’t want you ruining this for him, please, and thank you.  _

And now he stood, holding a drink he’d yet to sip, and trying his very best to hold tight to barely present sanity. 

The first few dances had been manageable. And the bride and groom, though nervous at the sight of fangs, had been gracious enough. “We’re so glad you could make it,” they’d told the two Vampires, reaching out their hands as if to shake the others hands, but pulling away fast. 

“We’ve seen your castle up the hill,” the wife had rambled, her hands moving around like trapped moths. “And we went to dinner at the restaurant -fabulous, by the way- and we just  _ knew _ we had to invite you since you’ve been more than hospitable-”

“Really,” Dracula tipped his head, smile tight, hiding his fangs. He was well practiced in the art. Humans were finicky about the strangest things. “It was our pleasure to attend. And we hope to see you more frequently.”

“There’s always rooms around now, anyway. Not on off season,” Mavis added. She wasn’t as quick to hide her fangs. Or her enthusiasm. Gushing to them about the new spa treatments and yoga classes. “So whenever you’re ready-”

“Oh- oh yeah! Totally!” The groom nodded his head too hard, chin bumping against the corners of his bow tie. “Totally. Definitely. We don’t really have money to book a destination honeymoon. It’s been tight with all the planning, and I’m between jobs. You know how it is. We were thinking of maybe getting a room there? It’s not Hawaii but-”

“We’ll see what we can do,” Dracula promised. “And I’m sure I can work around a less straining cost for you.”

The couple thanked them, excusing themselves to chatter with the other guests. Dracula knew most of them from milling about town, though he hadn’t talked to them himself. No one dared to wander up to the infamous count. He’d heard the occasional whisper while he reviewed receipts under lamplight outside the local grocers. 

_ I heard he pinned humans on stakes outside the caste- _

_ -heard he once drank the blood of a hundred pregnant widows- _

_ -bet he lives off blood donors he keeps trapped in the dungeons- _

He did his best to ignore it. It was harder when the same subjects of whispered horror stories skillfully avoided his gaze, decked out in cheap glow sticks and funny hats, dancing to a remix of some old 70’s song. 

One of the mothers pulled their child closer to her, and a father pushed their own behind his legs, ushering them closer back to their table. 

Dracula watched his feet and pretended it didn’t bother him. 

Because it didn’t. 

It  _ didn’t _ .

(It absolutely, totally, one hundred million percent did.)

And now he was attending one of their weddings, and was absolutely ready to hate every single moment of it. 

Mavis met him when he'd tried to escape outside, standing in the front lawn and drinking in the cool air. It was suffocating in the ballroom. 

“I know you’re worried,” she’d said, jumping from foot to foot in the chill, and he lifted his cape to offer her some warmth, but she stubbornly waved him away. “But this will be good for us. I promise.”

“You keep saying it.”

“And I keep meaning it.” She glared, and he looked away. “I know it doesn’t seem like it wherever you live in DraculaLand but change does happen. And it’s good.”

“Mavis-”

“And I’m really, really happy that you came with us.  _ Really _ .”

“I had to,” he pointed out sourly. “If the humans try to skewer you, you’ll need protection.” She raised a brow, his joke falling flat and splattering magnificently. He leaned back on his heels. “Mavis. Can’t we just leave? Now?  _ Please _ ?” He pointed out towards their Incredible Free spot where the Hearse looked almost comical squished between two of those eco-friendly tiny cars. 

She gave him a look that made his heart jump. “Dad…”

He’d sighed. 

Breathed in deep. 

“Dad,” she said, softer, reaching across to touch his arm. “ _ Please _ .”

And so that was how he ended up walking back across the little pathway up to reception hall once more, his daughters arm through his, and his undead heart settled somewhere up in his throat. 

The night could not get any worse.

.

.

.

And then, just like that, it did. 


End file.
